


Colorless

by MyLittleCornerOfSherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, M/M, Panic Attacks, mentions of - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:53:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock/pseuds/MyLittleCornerOfSherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A world without Sherlock is a world with out color, without flavor, without anything pleasant.   Written for the Johnlock Challenges Grab Bag Challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Colorless

**Author's Note:**

> My prompt was from green-owl-in-a-teacup and they asked for, "So what are we having for dinner, /darling/?" Rating G to T. I'm sorry, but I can't bring myself to have either one of them call the other "darling" as a pet name and I struggled a bit before writing this. I hope you like it.
> 
> No need for Johnlock goggles, it's there, at least the beginnings of it.

“You jumped and your life wasn’t the only one that ended that day. True, your’s was the more physical death, a departure of a life from this world. But my life, my life as I knew it ended as well. My life had been full of excitement, of color, and my body and mind were stimulated constantly. But then you jumped and took it all with you.

There were certain things I couldn’t take anymore. Wait, let me retract that statement. I couldn’t take anything anymore. I couldn’t take everyone’s pity, I couldn’t take talking about it with Ella, I couldn’t take living in the empty flat. But most of all, I couldn’t take anything that stimulated the senses. I couldn’t enjoy in the colors: the sharp red of a rose, a gentle blue of the sky, the first green of spring, the warm yellow sun bathing everything. I couldn’t tolerate the smells: that warm earthy smell after a summer rain, homey scent of fresh baked bread, the myriads of perfume and cologne on the human mass that pushed past me every day. I couldn’t stand the taste of anything: the cool crispness of a peppermint, the heady sweetness of sugar, the spicy garlic in Angelo’s sauce. I couldn’t bear sound: when people would murmur around me in everyday conversation, music that would beat it’s way inside my skull, laughter of a couple in love. The way things would feel against my skin could be too much: the crisp cotton sheets, an oh too soft pillow, a hand on my shoulder were unbearable. 

I moved out of 221B. I found a flat in a quiet part of London. It took a lot of searching and painful days of dealing with my over-stimulated senses, but I finally found a nice, quiet flat. The landlord didn’t care what I did with the place as long as I didn’t tear anything up. I painted the walls a subtle eggshell white or light beige. I shopped for the perfect furniture that wouldn’t hurt to look at or rest on. No telly, no radio would occupy my flat. My laptop found a place in the drawer of my new steel grey desk. I couldn’t bring myself to open it, but I also couldn’t bring myself to throw the damn thing in the bin. My memories of our life together, documented, lived there. I donated all my clothes that weren’t beige, grey, black, white, or brown. I was torn on what to do with the oatmeal jumper, it fit the colors that didn’t batter against my senses, but it was too comfortable, too soft. In the end, I gave it to Mrs. Hudson and told her to do what she liked with it. Sentiment on my part, but then again, I was always the sentimental one between us. 

My bed, sheets, and pillows took an age to get right. But I finally found the right combination of light tan, not too crisp not too soft sheets, and a middle of the road mattress and pillows for my twin bed. Anything larger was too big, too much room for me to roll around in. At any rate, I’d grown used to an army cot back in my days, this was by and far a step up from that. 

Food was easy. Plenty of stuff out there is bland, colorless, and wouldn’t bother me with the texture. White bread, mayo, bologna, pasta (no sauce), applesauce (not actual apples though with their bright, crisp skins), plain black tea (no cream or sugar), milk, water, potatoes, boiled chicken, white fish, maybe salt and pepper but not too much. I could live on all of those. Granted, they weren’t the healthiest of options, my doctor side chided me, but those foods didn’t hurt me to look at or taste.

I didn’t need money. You had seen to that. So what did I do with my life now? Well, not much to be honest. I ate. I slept. I might pick up a pen and put it to paper just to get something out of my head, but those papers stayed locked away. I might read a medical text, or some other nonfiction book that wouldn’t cause over stimulation. I didn’t pick up the newspapers or magazines anymore. There was no point. They all lied. I would very rarely go out, except to shop for groceries. I couldn’t take being out there among the masses. All those sounds, smells, colors, everything, overwhelmed me and I could barely make it back to the flat some days. It would take a good hour to calm my racing heart and come back to my peaceful sanctuary I’d created.

I guess I isolated myself. The only phone was the plain white one attached to the wall. I kept the ringer turned off. It was only there in case of an emergency. But really, who would want to hurt or steal anything from me? I was now, quite literally, as plain as they came. Boring, plain, John. And it suited me fine.

But then, of course, were the nightmares, I’d wake up screaming, my dreams filled with all the sensory experiences I couldn’t take in the waking hours. The red blood, the scent of rain, “Goodbye, John” ringing in my ears, no pulse in your cold wrist, and an acrid copper taste on my tongue. I’d dash to the toilet retching, rinse my mouth out with the cool water from the faucet, before getting in the shower and try to wash away my sins. I couldn’t save you, my final words before the phone call haunted me, and the fact that I couldn’t stop you. Those times the saltiness of my tears was almost too much.

And then today, you were standing in my living room when I got back from Tesco, a bright beacon of everything I’d tried to block out. Sunlight flooding around you as you read my innermost thoughts on those damn pieces of paper I should have binned, where did you find a blue scarf again, smelling of the rainstorm I’d just escaped from, a pulse beating in the wrist I just grabbed. You tell me you jumped for me, to save me. You tell me you had to be gone all this time. You tell me I had to be like this? No..no. Don’t say anything else. I need a minute, maybe a lifetime to deal with this.” John collapsed on the sofa, drained. For once, he hadn’t known when to stop talking.

Sherlock listened as John bared his soul to the detective, filling in the gaps and why’s Sherlock hadn’t been able to figure out. He hadn’t been able to understand why this flat felt wrong, why it felt so mundane. He’d found the letters John had written him, his heart wrenching with each one, and now listening to John’s story it felt like a punch in the gut. This didn’t feel like his John, not the man he’d met in Bart’s that first fateful day nor the one he’d left behind when he jumped off the very same roof they’d met under. He had been the cause of this and he needed to fix it. His brain whirred looking for an answer. Then something clicked into place. Food! Food seemed to be the universal answer when you wanted to comfort someone.

“When did you last eat something with flavor? Or color for that matter? Let’s have dinner!” Sherlock blurted out, jumping up and heading to the kitchen.

“Wha-What?!” John stuttered, scrambling up off the sofa. “You show up in my living area, listen to me ramble on about my life, and the first thing you want to know is ‘So what are we having for dinner, darling?’ What the hell?!”

“There’s nothing in here worth eating! Not even a biscuit,” Sherlock observed as he went through the cupboards and refrigerator. “Come on, we’re going to Angelo’s!”

“NO! Sherlock! NO! I can’t go out there, out where everyone else is carrying on with their lives, out where the sounds, the smells...out where I can’t be anymore. I just can’t.” John sobbed. 

“Why not?”

“Because, because you’re not out there. You died and took it all with you. I need this calm, quiet place. I can’t stand the pressing in of everything all around me. It’s like...” John struggled to find the words, “It’s like drowning but in air, it’s like being buried alive but there’s nothing there, it’s like screaming and no one hears you.” He finished gasping, clutching his arms around himself.

“But, John, I’m alive, I’m here, and I can help you get it all back if you want,” Sherlock slowly reached out and touched John’s sleeve. 

John looked at those long pale fingers on his sleeve. Surprisingly, Sherlock’s fingers didn’t hurt when they touched him. John tentatively laced his fingers through Sherlock’s, still no pain. 

“Small steps then, please don’t rush me.”

Sherlock smiled at his friend. “Takeaway? Something simple.”

John smiled back and squeeze Sherlock's hand, “That sounds good.”


End file.
